Twenty-Four Minutes of Silence
by Gwen's Blue Box
Summary: Against his brother's belief, Mycroft Holmes has more pressing things on his mind than allowing Sherlock to pester him all the time. After twenty-four minutes of silence, however, Sherlock's reaction to Mycroft's scolding turns out far too disturbing for his liking, and he has to realise that, in the end, there really isn't anything more important than his little brother./Kid!fic.


_This one-shot was written over a year ago, forgotten about and, after Series 3, re-discovered, dusted and revamped. Beware of brotherly fluff._

_I don't own these characters and apologise for any spelling mistakes in advance.  
_

_Enjoy._

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**Twenty-Four Minutes of Silence**

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"Sherlock," Mycroft repeated in his most annoyed big-brother-voice. "Go to your room and be quiet. I am trying to read!"

No reaction. His brother was not even paying attention to him. "Sherlock!"

The two-year-old flinched a bit and suddenly focused on Mycroft. "My?" he asked.

Mycroft barely managed to suppress a sigh, shoving his chair back and getting up from his desk. Concentrating on his reading had to wait - at least until he had got rid of his little brother.

Approaching his brother who was sitting on Mycroft's dark carpet, Mycroft reached out for his brother's hand. "Sherlock, come on. Ask Mummy if she is going to play with you. Or try to chase Redbeard through the house. Or whatever. _I _need to concentrate."

"My," Sherlock only repeated, beaming at Mycroft.

"And stop calling me 'My'," Mycroft ordered. "'My' is a possessive pronoun, used to express ownership, and definitely not my name. Mycroft. Say it, Sherlock, come on."

Sherlock kept smiling.

One more time, Mycroft was fighting the urge to sigh. "Go to your room, Sherlock, and stay there. Play something."

Sherlock made no effort to get to his short legs, but instead looked at Mycroft with large blue eyes. "My."

Eventually, there was a time when sighing became inevitable. Now, Mycroft decided and voiced his frustration. Without being impressed by Sherlock going limp, he picked his little brother up and carried him to the corridor. After a few steps, Sherlock's tiny arms tightened around Mycroft's neck and he was almost being strangled by his baby brother.

"Sherlock," he scolded. "Stop throttling me."

Sherlock only giggled. "My," he said.

Mycroft had never in his life assumed that anything could be more annoying than Sherlock screaming his head off, in the first few weeks after their parents had brought him home. Sherlock had wailed all the time, it had seemed to Mycroft, had only very seldomly calmed down a bit, relaxed, but when he had been a few months old, his habit of screaming had stopped. A relief to Mycroft's ears - and, well, a relief in general, for it had been hard to hear his little brother cry all the time.

Now, he had found out, that there was even something more infuriating - Sherlock talking, babbling his first words, disturbing Mycroft, not granting him more than a few minutes of peace, longing for Mycroft's attention… Didn't his baby brother understand that were so many important things to do, so many interesting things to find out and read about?

Apparently not.

So, his brother only left him with one solution - Sherlock had to be put into his room, maybe presented some toys, and hopefully, hopefully, he would forget about pestering Mycroft. Hopefully.

Mycroft barely managed to open the door to Sherlock's tiny bedroom as his brother uttered another "My", demanding. Always demanding. Everything that came out of Sherlock's mouth - no proper sentences of course, only words or simple, archaic babbling - seemed to be demanding: demanding attention, food, more attention, being entertained.

Seriously - didn't his brother have other things on his mind? No, Mycroft decided when he heard another "My". Sherlock's favourite word, apparently. Why could it not have simply been "Mummy"? "Daddy", "Redbeard", anything. Anything but "My".

Mycroft had reached Sherlock's bed and placed his brother on it, unfolding the arms that were clutching his own neck. Sherlock made a face and tried to keep his hold, but, naturally, Mycroft was stronger and succeeded.

"Look, Sherlock," he addressed his brother who was sitting on his duvet, his expression so very unhappy. "Your toys. Do you want the teddy bear? Or the action man?"

Sherlock remained silent - Mycroft took it as affirmative for the teddy bear. He picked his brother's toy up from the floor and put in on the bed next to Sherlock.

"Stay here," he told his little brother. "Play with your teddy or try to sleep. But let me read." In peace and silence. "Oh," he decided to add, "and please be quiet. Simply shut up. I need to concentrate."

With these words, Mycroft turned around, failing to notice his brother's upper lip trembling ever so slightly and his eyes watering.

~O~

Back in his room, he resumed his position behind his desk, allowing himself to focus on his books again. Read, study. In silence, in fact.

Marvellous.

After ten minutes of silence from his brother's room directly next to his, he was pleased. Obviously, his brotherly authority had made his brother comply - or maybe Sherlock had finally understood that Mycroft's world was not revolving around him.

After fifteen minutes of silence, Mycroft was surprised. He did in fact not remember the day when he had heard nothing from his brother for such a long time, not even when their mother played with and therefore entertained Sherlock and Redbeard simultaneously.

After twenty minutes of silence, Mycroft found himself staring at the page he was supposed to be reading, without seeing a single one of the letters. His words had to have left a more permanent impression on Sherlock than he had imagined. Good, he decided. Time to study.

After twenty-two minutes of silence, Mycroft was desperately waiting for a sound, just a whisper from his brother's room, or maybe an either shy or overconfident knock on his door. Nothing of which happened.

After twenty-three minutes of silence, Mycroft closed his book. Something had to be wrong with his baby brother - Sherlock never stayed calm and quiet for such an amount of time. Not even when he was sleeping - he kept mumbling and babbling nonsense under his breath.

It took Mycroft twenty-four minutes of silence to stand up from his chair and hurry to the corridor, to his brother's room. Feeling unusually insecure, he hesitated for a few moments and tried to detect even the faintest noise. Nothing.

That was it. Something was _definitely_ wrong.

In a rush and with a force usually only to be known from his little brother or their dog, Mycroft opened the door, taking in the sight of the room - and stopped dead in his tracks, frozen.

Sherlock was still seated on his bed, in excactly the same position as Mycroft had left him, his teddy next to him. Sherlock did not make a single sound, sat in absolute silence - tears falling from a child's eyes and rolling down pale cheeks did not cause a noise.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called out, petrified - he, petrified! - by the image he perceived.

His baby brother, his crying baby brother, slowly turned his head towards Mycroft. "My?" he whispered.

The next second, Mycroft had wrapped his arms around the tiny body, picking Sherlock up, cradling him close. "Sshh," he attempted to console his baby brother. "I'm here now, Sherlock, it's alright, everything's fine. Sssh."

Once more, Sherlock wrapped his short arms around Mycroft's neck, his head resting on Mycroft's shoulder. "My," he mumbled. "'m sorry."

Sorry. His brother said sorry, something else than 'My', and it was because of him. "Sssh," Mycroft repeated monotonously, rocking his baby brother softly forth and back. "Don't cry, Sherlock." With one hand, he gently stroked his brother's hair, then lowered him back onto his bed.

Sherlock's eyes were puffy, his nose red, his lips trembling. All because of crying for the twenty-four minutes it took his big brother to return. Very tenderly, Mycroft wiped the tears away from his baby brother's face. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Now, don't cry. It's alright."

When Mycroft wanted to get up and retrieve a tissue, Sherlock's tiny hands immediately clutched the front of Mycroft's shirt, not willing to let him go. Mycroft crouched down again, picking his baby brother up once more.

"Alright," he soothed. "We'll go to my room, hm? You and I, together. Do you want to take your teddy?"

Sherlock shook his head, hugging Mycroft so very tightly.

"But you have to let me study," Mycroft remarked as he stepped out of the room.

"My," Sherlock confirmed, his voice tiny and timid.

~O~

Mycroft replaced Sherlock on the soft carpet in his own room, then returned to his desk. Reading, studying. Not all the studies and books in the world justified making his little brother cry. And, he decided, if he was not able to concentrate while his baby brother kept mumbling 'My, My, My', how then should he be able to achieve anything once he was older, surely to be faced with problems and distractions at the same time?

Sherlock took not even five minutes until he slowly approached his brother's chair, a little bit unsteady on his short legs. "My," he demanded, his tears completely dried again.

And Mycroft sighed, shoved his chair back, and pulled his baby brother into his lap. With Sherlock leaning against him, he reopened one of his books and started reading.

A tiny finger was placed on one of the pictures in the books, followed by a questioning "My?"

"Mycroft, Sherlock. Mycroft." He stifled his sigh, this time, and didn't even scold his brother. "This is…," he began to explain.

"Mycie!" another voice, even louder and more insistent than his brother's, interrupted him.

"My!" Sherlock echoed, craning his neck towards Mycroft until he found himself staring directly into his little brother's bright blue eyes. It was not surprising, really not, that his brother did not know how to articulate his full name, if not even their mother did.

"Mycie," she repeated and opened the door to his room, with about the same force Sherlock used to bump against it, on his tiny, wobbly legs. "Do you know where your brother… oh. Lunch," she announced, striding fully into the room. Of course Redbeard clang to her heels and immediately stormed into Mycroft's room, his tail wagging.

"My!" Sherlock cheered, waving his tiny fists at the dog. "Dog!"

Dog, of course. Not Redbeard, simply dog. Mycroft's shifted his brother's weight on his lap and got up from his chair.

"Come on, you two," their mother encouraged them. "And you, Redbeard."

~O~

Sherlock did not want to let go of Mycroft once they had arrived in the kitchen.

"Mycie, what's wrong with your brother today?" their mother wanted to know while she was filling his plate. "Sherlock, darling," she went on and reached out for her younger son's chubby arms. "Let Mycie eat, hm, will you?"

"Mh," Sherlock protested faintly, his tiny hands clutching the hem of Mycroft's shirt at the back of his neck.

Mycroft did not need to see his little brother's face to know that his lips had to be trembling again and tears were brimming in his eyes.

"It's fine, Mummy," he said and of course did _not_ miss the pleased smile on her face.

"Oh, whatever you say," she mumbled and patted Redbeard's head, still smiling.

Mycroft swallowed another sigh as he attempted to free one of his arms, at least sufficiently enough to be able to pick up his fork. "Sherlock," he addressed his clingy little brother. "I really _would _like to eat."

Sherlock allowed him, finally, a little bit of freedom, but he did not let go completely. Did not even let go once Mycroft and his mother had finished their meals, and Mycroft still was being clung to when his little brother finally fell asleep, cuddled up to him, breathing perfectly even.

The pleased smile did not leave his mother's face while Mycroft remained glued to his chair, inwardly itching to get up and return to his reading and yet condemned to remain motionless, their dog drooling over his left shoe, his little brother using him as a pillow.

Well, Sherlock might not be the brightest child - he was two years old already, and had not even learned to express himself at least rudimentarily, a skill Mycroft had mastered at a far younger age -, but… but he was Mycroft's little brother.

Well, he assumed while feeling unable, for the moment, to tear his gaze away from his brother's relaxed expression as he was slumbering, the tears forgotten, perhaps he would not tell Sherlock to shut up again. And even if he did so, nonetheless, by accident, would still not be too annoyed about his brother continuing to babble merrily.

A big brother should, after all, never make his sibling cry.

This time, he did not care about Mummy's widening smile - pride, clearly, at plainly obvious affection for Sherlock - as he softly brushed a stray strand of hair out of his little brother's face.

~O~

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_Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it._

_It would be very kind of you to let me know what you thought._


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